ng the fire fade away till it was a
faint glow almost level with the ground. Then at last Renfrew spoke, in
a voice that was almost timid.

"Claire," he said.

"Yes," she answered out of the dull twilight that would soon be
darkness.

"If I have said anything to-night to hurt you, don't think of it, don't
remember it. I don't know--I don't seem to have been like myself
to-night. I believe that cursed music irritated me, so ugly, and so
monotonous; it got right on my nerves, I think."

"Did it?"

"Without my knowing it."

He felt for one of her hands and clasped it.

"Yes, dear. We both said more than we meant. Didn't we?"

Claire did not assent; but she let her hand lie in his. That satisfied
him then, although afterwards he remembered her silence. Soon the fire
was dead; and they said good-night in the wind, which seemed colder
because there was no more light.

* * * * *

Renfrew went to his tent, undressed, and got into bed. The wind roared
against the canvas. But the pegs had been driven stoutly into the ground
by the porters, and held the cords fast. He felt very tired and
depressed, and thought he would not fall asleep quickly. But he soon
began to be drowsy, and to have a sense of dropping into the very arms
of the tempest, lulled by its noise. He slept for a time. Presently,
however, and while it was still quite dark, he woke up. He heard the
wind as before, but was troubled by an idea that some other sound was
mingling with it, some murmur so indistinct that he could not decide
what it was, although he was aware of it. He sat up and strained his
ears, and wished the wind would lull, if only for a moment, or that this
other sound--which had surely been the cause of his waking--would
increase, and stand out distinctly in the night. And, at last, by dint
of listening with all his force, Renfrew seemed to himself to compel the
sound to greater clearness. Then he knew that somewhere, far off perhaps
in the wind, the player on the pipe reiterated his soft and stealthy
music. It was swept on the tempest like a drowning thing caught in a
whirlpool. It was so faint as to be almost inaudible. But in all its
weakness it retained most completely its character, and made the same
impression upon Renfrew as when it was near and distinct. It irritated
and it repelled him. And, with an angry exclamation, he flung himself
down and buried his head in the pillow, stopping his ears with hi